You can be Alice, I'll be the Mad Hatter
by adumbratus
Summary: After the war Germany sometimes had conniptions making his relationship with America somewhat antithetic. Contains crazyness and not-really-graphic smut.


**A/N: Honestly, I don't know what the heck happened. This story contains smut, this story contains madness, probably a lot of mistakes, because I'm tired (I had to do a project in mathematics.** _ **mathematics**_ **.) I have never written and published smut before in the Hetalia fandom, I am always ridiculously embarrassed and it is never sexy or cute or something like that. Maybe you like it or you think "You stupid fuckhead are stupid." and maybe you want to tell me why :D**

 **I have listened to "Mad Hatter" by Melanie Martinez so much that I almost got a headache of it.**

There was such a scary but fascinating maniacism about him making his eyes glow with the lights out, making me disgusted and excited about him.

I saw him sitting sunk down with his back to the wall. His hands were bloody, he had shot the mirror in front of him with the gun next to him.

"I have tried to shoot myself. It didn't work out.", he raised the weapon up to me, smiled into my face and said: "You do it."

I took the gun, placed it in the drawer and locked it.

"Horton H IX. With a bigger version of it I would have ripped your beautiful angel face into tiny bloody pieces, I would have turned New York into a fire blazing chaos and tiny shards of nothing would fly razor sharp through the air, slitting the throats of your culture…", he laughed maniacally and hysterically.

He was not all the time crazy, there were only some days… when a mad terrifying grimace of his face appeared and made him do at first glance incomprehensible things.

One time France had discovered him. He had entered his room and backed away horrified at the doorway. Germany lay in the middle of his huge bed, half-naked, with his upper body exposed, a knife next to him and a lot of blood around him. Germany was still breathing, his chest rose and fell heavily.

He had cut the Hakenkreuz tattooed onto his chest.

England had closed the door and took care of his wound.

"My people… the children, they are asking their parents. Their fathers. 'Daddy, what did you do in Stalingrad?'. They do not love me, my people. They do love… you.", he raised suddenly and walked towards me. I had to stop myself from backing away. He cupped my face with his hands and angled his head: "They love you so much…"

He began to kiss my throat, gripped my shoulders firmly, caressed my chest…

"Germany…", I tried to stop him… somehow.

"You can build military camps on my grounds, deploy nuclear bombs, you can make your things popular, you are my hero, my savior, my –", he sunk to his knees.

"Germany."

"I would do anything for you. Anything.", he seemed to have gotten to normal again. He stood up again, faced me and said nothing for quite a while.

"I'm sorry.", he tidied my dress shirt and closed a few buttons he had opened before. I snatched for his hand. I did that automatically. I wasn't as much aware of what I was doing as I wished to.

He looked at our hands and raised his head. We had somehow gotten so close – it was terrifying in a nice way.

We came even closer.

Our heads angled.

And our mouths locked and something snapped. The slowness was gone, we hurried somewhere, I don't know really where, but we ended up in bed and half-naked before our movements slowed down.

He just laid there, while I kissed up and down his body, angled his head backwards, he was somehow quiet. When I stopped, he looked up to me with an evil grin and – unexpectedly – scratched my back.

This kind of sex was almost schizophrenic – fast, wild and even hurting followed by slow, luxurious, even loving.

After he had pressed his nose into my cheek, kissed me sweetly, he wrapped his long muscular legs around my waist and rubbed our lower bodies together violently.

I don't know how long we had stayed in there, I only know it felt long, especially for two people without time. It felt like we had tried out all sexual practices that came to our minds. And after he had fallen asleep half-deadly, I exited the room and didn't feel one bit dirty in terms of conscience.

On my way to the shower a cute german secretary blocked my way and tried eagerly to speak good English. She blushed. I asked myself if she did because she had heard us. Honestly I didn't care.

"Ah, sir, you, uh, got 75 calls while you were away. I have listed them here for you as far as I got the names."

"Vielen Dank, Frau…?"

"Oh, you speak Deutsch, ah, Schmidt."

„Schmidt.", I smiled musingly and snatched the list from her hand.


End file.
